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to do. But Lindsay had said to stay near the phone. Emma couldn’t imagine how Antonia would have got her number, but if there was any chance at all that she would ring, she didn’t want to be too drugged to take the call.
    â€œYou really should try to sleep,” Dr. Stanford advised her.
    â€œI will,” Emma said. “But for now, I need to be awake.”
    â€¢ • •
    And then, just after five o’clock that evening, the phone rang.
    Lindsay and Detective Inspector Hill were in the flat. Lindsay had been there most of the day, making endless cups of tea, and nipping round to Sainsbury’s to buy soup that Emma wasn’t able to eat. Detective Hill had just arrived an hour ago—to take Emma’s official statement, he said. Lindsay explained to Emma how this was done.
    â€œJust tell us everything you’ve told us already, as it occurs to you,” she said. “Plus anything else you may have remembered in the meantime. Don’t worry if you get confused or if things aren’t in the right order. We’ll be recording everything you say, so we can put the full statement together later from the tape. At some point we’ll ask you to read it through, and if you’re happy we’ll ask you to sign it.”
    Emma spoke into the tape recorder and repeated most of what she’d told the police the night before. She didn’t remember anything new. When the statement was finished, Lindsay got up and went into the kitchen to boil the kettle. Emma went to the bathroom. She was just unbuckling her jeans when the low brrr-brrr of the phone started up from the sitting room. She froze. In the mirror over the sink, a white-faced scarecrow, harshly lit from above, gaped with black, sunken eyes. Emma listened, hardly breathing, very still.
    The ringing was cut off. Lindsay’s voice spoke, paused, spoke again.
    And then—Oh sweet Jesus!—there came running footsteps and a hammering on the bathroom door.
    â€œEmma.” Lindsay’s tone was urgent. “Quick. Quick.”
    Emma let go of her belt and stumbled to the door.
    â€œIt’s a man,” Lindsay hissed. “Wouldn’t give a name. Are you expecting a call?”
    Emma shook her head. She couldn’t think . . . Unless it was Oliver, ringing to say he’d heard. She took the phone. There was no feeling in her fingers; she had to use her other hand to stop it slipping.
    â€œHello?”
    A man’s voice said: “Is that Emma Turner?”
    It wasn’t Oliver.
    Emma went rigid. Beside her, Lindsay’s eyes were so wide Emma could see the white bits around her pupils.
    â€œYes?” Emma said.
    â€œOh, hello. My name is Rafe Townsend.”
    She had never heard the name.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWe met yesterday. In the tube station, remember?”
    Emma’s legs buckled. Lindsay gripped her arm. Emma clutched a table for support.
    â€œHello?” the voice was saying. “Hello? Are you still there?”
    â€œYes,” Emma said coldly. “Yes, I’m here.”
    â€œYou left all your bags behind when you got on the train,” the man said. “Your number was in your wallet. I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but I wanted to check you got your baby back all right.”

Chapter Five
    Emma couldn’t speak. It was a while before she could even understand what the man was talking about. Feelings rushed at her. Relief that this man on the phone wasn’t the kidnapper. Disappointment that he wasn’t. It was too much. Too much. She backed away, dropping the phone on the floor.
    Lindsay and Detective Hill were with her at once. Who was this person? they wanted to know. Where had she met him? How much had he seen of what had happened?
    â€œHe tried to help me in the station.” Emma was shaking. “He pulled me back from going under the train.”
    Detective Hill picked the phone up off the